Curing Insomnia
by Writer Unblocked
Summary: Booth used to be unable to sleep at night, but something of Temperance's finally did the trick. Now, he's addicted to it. This is a continuation of my one-shot on the sense of smell from Olfaction. Ch 1 repost, everything else brand new
1. Chapter 1

_Remember that white scarf that smells like Bones? The one Booth uses to lull himself to sleep? It's baaaa-aaaack!!! This is a continuation of Olfaction (not the entire series on the five senses, but just the very first one-shot on the sense of smell...it's kinda hard to distinguish by name). A few of you have been wondering what would happen if Brennan discovers that Booth has been cuddling up to her scarf at night. It was my original intent to leave you hanging (teehee), but what can I say people? I guess I just love you too much to do that to you. And really, this idea came to me in a dream (or a Fung Wah bus ride from New York City to Boston, same thing...Hopefully there are a few Bostonians/New Yorkers out there who will see the irony of that statement. Four hours on a bus that smells like dumplings...ahhh heaven...okay, I'll stop) and I couldn't let it go. So here it is! The first chapter is a repost of the original Olfaction for those of you who haven't read it/need a refresher (and for those of you who haven't read it yet, I do hope you'll enjoy it enough to go read my one-shots on the other four senses). The second chapter is new stuff. There will be two more chaps to follow (as far as I know) and I do promise not to take too long posting._

_Btdubbs, I don't own but I love them as though I do. Also, for those of you who have reviewed the original Olfaction/Keeping It Professional but haven't received a response from me, I promise to get on that soon. Please don't hate me for being a slowpoke._

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You didn't know why you had even gotten into bed. All it was was a waste of your damn time because, lately, your mind couldn't rest. Every time you got into bed, you followed one of two patterns; sometimes, you fell asleep quickly but woke up less than an hour later panting, drenched in sweat, and terrified out of your mind after another nightmare. Other times, your mind was so busy reliving your worst memories that you never fell asleep at all. You weren't sure which fate was worse but, no matter what, you were haunted all night by demons you once thought that you'd defeated, but that your capture by the gravedigger and the mystical appearance of Teddy had brought rushing back.

The demons were memories. They were your very worst Ranger days, your very worst moments as a sniper. The tears of an eight-year-old whose father _you _had killed. Teddy's blood, so much of it, because _you_ had neglected to make sure he stayed down. Being captured, the torture you'd been through, watching as your closest buddies died one after another. They were memories of waking up inside of some sort of steel structure, trapped on board a boat that was set to blow. Memories of how it felt to think that you would never, _never_ again see your son or your partner—your fascinating, _beautiful_ partner to whom you didn't have the guts to admit that, yes, you were madly in love with her and, yes, you knew that she was an alpha female of sorts but that didn't stop you from wanting her more than you'd ever wanted anyone else before.

Memories of all the times you had felt defeated and hopeless. Memories of all the times you had been sure that you were going to die.

Tonight was not very much different from any other night. It had been a long day and you were exhausted, yet here it was three-fifteen in the morning and you hadn't slept a wink all night. You'd gone to bed nearly three hours ago, but all you'd done was toss and turn and unsuccessfully try to get rid of those demons.

Tonight's worst demon was the body that Bones—and, subsequently, _you_—had been called in to identify the day before. A badly decomposed man, late thirties, had washed up on the beach. An accidental drowning, it would turn out, once Bones figured out he was the same father of two who'd gone overboard during a stormy late-night canoe trip a month earlier. An easy case, but that wasn't what bothered you.

What bothered you was the _smell_. It was the smell of the body and, honestly, you had no idea why this smell was different from any other. Bodies smelled bad all the time. Gruesome sights and smells were things you had sort of become immune to since you started working with Bones. You had to.

But the stench of this body was exceptionally strong. And revolting. The first whiff had given you the urge to puke right then and there, but with Bones around to glare at you you'd managed to keep it all down. The last thing you wanted to do was throw up in front of the woman of your dreams, anyway; a woman who had seen things just as bad—if not worse—than you had and still managed to keep the contents of her stomach under control.

You had stood a good distance away and held a handkerchief to your face while Bones did her thing—she, of course, was outwardly unfazed by her surroundings—but that didn't stop the stench from invading you. It got in your nostrils, in your hair, in your clothes. It crawled under your skin and now, fifteen hours after you'd last seen the body, _you could still smell it._

You had no idea why. No idea what made the stench of this body cling to you like no other. All you knew was that you could still smell it. Still. And, exhausted as you were, it would not let you sleep.

You had showered. Twice. You scrubbed extra hard. You shampooed four times. You had even lit some of those aromatherapy candles that Tessa had left behind all those years ago.

But you could still smell it. _Nothing_ could get rid of that smell.

You smelled it even as you were haunted by your normal nighttime memories. Your mind carried you back to Guatemala, to Kosovo, to dark rooms and torture chambers, and that smell came right along with you.

Three-thirty, and you stared wide-eyed at the ceiling above your bed. You could still smell it. You could _still_ smell it. It. Would. Not. Go. Away.

And it wouldn't let you sleep.

_Sleep_. That was all you wanted. One night of pure, uninterrupted, dead-to-the-world sleep. You didn't want to feel so tired all the time anymore. You didn't want your work to become affected by your lack of sleep. And you sure as hell didn't want Bones to notice—although you were positive she already had. She was the most observant person you'd ever met; of course she noticed the extra coffee per day you'd been drinking recently. Of course she noticed that you nodded off that time while waiting for her to finish her paperwork so the two of you could grab a bite to eat. Of course she noticed the shadows under your eyes, the ones that grew heavier by the day.

But you couldn't sleep. You _couldn't._

That _smell_.

You rolled around in bed, each new position becoming uncomfortable after the first three minutes, until your covers became a tangled mess at your feet. You had started sweating hours ago, and now your sheets were drenched despite the fact that you'd opened all the windows and stripped down to your boxers.

It was hot. Sweltering. And you couldn't breathe. All you could do was smell.

Three forty-five. You sat up, punched your pillows furiously, and slammed your body back down. You shut your eyes tightly and willed yourself to feel nothing, think nothing, _smell nothing_.

It didn't work.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You got out of bed and slowly made your way through the pitch darkness to your kitchen. You quickly downed two full glasses of water and stood there for a moment, eyes closed. You prayed to God, wished desperately for it to go away.

But. You. Could. Still. Smell. It.

You were choking. Suffocating. Drowning. Your head pounded relentlessly, and it was so hot. The smell made you want to vomit, but you clenched your mouth shut and wouldn't let anything come up. You swallowed the bile in your throat. It was so hot. You were suffocating. Your head hurt. You could still smell it.

Then, a sudden surge anger swept over you—anger at your exhaustion, at your inability to sleep, at _that smell_—and you couldn't help it. You whirled around and punched your wall furiously, your fist breaking through the plaster and leaving behind an ugly, gaping hole.

Your knuckles hurt—maybe they were bleeding—and you cursed, but you could still smell. Irate, you were about to punch the wall again, but then you saw it.

You froze, your eyes fixated on it. And suddenly you longed for her. You'd be willing to beg, plead, anything to get her over here. You couldn't call her. The sound of her voice wouldn't be enough. You would need to touch her, to hold her in your arms, to bring her soft, slender frame close to yours, to bury your face in her hair, and inhale.

You needed her. You were crazy, madly in love with her, but you restrained yourself. She was one of the few things in this world that made you feel good, like a better man, but you couldn't have her. She was half your reason for living. You adored her. But she would never let you have her.

You could, however, have the white scarf she had left behind—if only for one night. It was laying there, on your kitchen table, where she'd innocently dropped it earlier when she'd come over to do some paperwork. She'd forgotten to take it with her when she left. And there it was. Right there on the table.

Unthinking, you snatched it up and pressed it against your face.

It was soft and, somehow, it was still warm. As though she'd discarded it minutes ago instead of hours. Best of all, it had been around her neck, brushing against her hair, soaking up her perfume and her shampoo. It smelled just like her.

You loved her smell. You spent so much time with her, you would know it anywhere. It was unique, something distinctly her. You couldn't define it, but you loved it. All day long you fought the urge to sniff her hair, to place your nose in the crook of her neck and just breathe. She was all you really wanted, all you ever wanted, but you knew you couldn't have her.

But you could have her scarf, and it smelled like her, and that soothed you.

Feeling the tension, the anxiety, the fear, _the smell_ evaporate from your body, you carried the scarf with you to your sofa. As long as you could smell her, you knew the other smell would leave you. You knew you would be okay.

You lay down and, making sure you kept the scarf firmly in place around your mouth and nose, you grabbed a pillow and hugged it to your chest. You pretended it was her. You pretended you were holding her in your arms as her scent washed over you, took you over. And it made you feel more relaxed than you had felt in days.

She would probably think you were pathetic if she could see you. She would probably be disturbed if she could see you. She might even think you were a pervert, getting off on her smell like that. But it didn't matter.

What mattered was that, for the first time in days, you drifted off into a deep, easy slumber. You had dreams, but they were only sweet dreams. Of her. With her scarf—_her scent_—enveloping you, you slept longer and more peacefully than you had in a very long time.

You finally woke up feeling fresh, rested, and ready to take on a new day. And you knew that if you wanted to continue to sleep easily, you would have to make her "forget" articles of clothing in your apartment more often.

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_"Harlem, we've already read this! We want to read new stuff!"_

_"I'm sorry, what was that?"_

_"WE WANT NEW STUFF!"_

_"Well...I really don't want to...I mean, it's late and I'm tired and I've got class/work tomorrow...Oh, FINE!"_

_ (No fair, you know I can't resist you when you get all cute and pouty like that.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Here we have Chapter 2! Starting with the morning after and ending with…well, you'll see._

_Disclaimer: No, I still don't own them. Bernie the Beagle (who is mentioned briefly in the first section below), however, is a real life dog. He belongs to my baby sister but he lives with me while she is in a dorm that doesn't allow pets and I love him very much even though I'm forced to pick up his excrement and he tries to sit in my lap while I write fanfiction (very bad for the brand new Macbook…VERRRY BAD. Not to mention that he weighs more than I do)._

_Oops, I've gone way off-topic again._

_Enjoy!_

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It's a miracle what six hours of pure, uninterrupted sleep can do to a man suffering from three weeks' worth of insomnia.

You woke up feeling good. Better than good, actually. You felt great. Your partner's sweet-smelling scarf still covered your nose and mouth, and while it was nowhere near as satisfying as having her soft little body curled right up next to yours when you awoke, her scent overloading your olfactory senses first thing in the morning was as close as a second could be. You inhaled deeply a couple of times, surprised that her perfume hadn't faded away yet, and smiled. You felt refreshed, rejuvenated; more like a focused twenty-one-year-old than a man who was fastly approaching middle age.

You hopped right out of bed—or rather, the sofa—without the usual ten-minute internal struggle, already alert and eager to get to work and kick some murderer ass. It was a beautiful day—the sun was shining, the sky was a perfect cobalt blue, and a fresh few inches of pristine white snow from yesterday's mini-storm coated the ground. Glancing out the window, you smiled when you realized that it was the perfect type of snow for snowball making. Maybe you were eager to do a few things other than kick murderer ass; a snowball fight with Parker and/or Bones sounded like a pretty good idea right now—especially with Bones. Of course, you loved spending time with Parker, but a snowball fight with Bones would be out of this world. She would get all sexy karate girl on your ass, and you would love every moment of it.

But, unfortunately, it was a Thursday, and murderers weren't going to kick their own asses.

You jumped in the shower and quickly donned a suit with snowman socks to match your mood. You had a tie thrown loosely around your neck and were just starting to run gel through your hair when someone knocked on your door.

"Who's that?" you called, coming out of your bedroom and making your way towards the front door. You weren't expecting anyone, but it was possible that Wendy, the little old lady who lived in the apartment across the hall, had picked up your paper for you on her way in from walking Bernie, her beagle.

You swung the front door open without really hearing the answer and immediately realized that the woman who stood before you was surely no Wendy Peterson. She was a few decades younger and stunningly beautiful in a way that Wendy Peterson could never have been, even so early in the morning. She was dressed in a flattering brown business blazer and skirt with curly auburn hair dusting her shoulders, her blue eyes so bright and so pretty that for a moment all you wanted to do was just stare. But of course, you couldn't do that.

"Hey Booth," she greeted with a soft smile.

"Bones!" you exclaimed, surprised. You checked your watch. "It's…six-thirty in the morning. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your pretty face so bright and early?"

Her smile slipped a little at your mention of her 'pretty face' and you mentally slapped yourself for letting the adjective pass through your lips. The woman took serious offense to being objectified and you knew that. However, the slip was only temporary and she was apparently in a forgiving mood because, as she gave you a once-over, she suddenly beamed.

"You look like you're feeling a lot better," she remarked, not answering your question at all as she brushed past you and into your apartment. You closed the door behind her as she headed for the kitchen. It was only then that you noticed that she carried a tray with two coffees and a paper bag.

"What do you mean 'feeling a lot better'?" you asked, following her with your eye on that bag. _Does she have one of those extra-gooey cinnamon rolls from Christy's Café in there? _Oh God, Bones was the best, "When was I ever not feeling good?"

"Last night. I could tell," she replied, setting the coffee and the bag down on your table. She turned to face you, blue eyes filled with concern, "I'm not very good at interpreting others, Booth, but I know you. You seemed quite exhausted yesterday, and I can tell you haven't been sleeping very well for at least a week, probably longer."

Damn, you'd tried to keep her from noticing how tired you'd been feeling lately. Damn, damn, damn her and her stupid observation skills.

"How do you know that?" you asked.

"Well, while you can still be considered physically alluring to members of the opposite sex, there are uniform areas of pigmentation beneath each of your eyes, which can be an indicator of sleeplessness. Of course, they may also be an indicator of a few other things but, judging by the extra coffee you've been drinking every afternoon and the few times you've fallen asleep in my office, I think it's logical to conclude that you haven't been sleeping very well lately," she said this all very fast in her best squint voice, and you smiled. You had practically no idea what she was saying, but she sure looked cute saying it. Not that you would ever say that out loud.

"So you brought me coffee?"

To your amusement, her squinty chattering halted and she hesitated for a moment, glancing unsurely at the coffee and bag on the table. Was she blushing? Just barely.

Your smile got a little bigger. That was your Bones, all fast-talking and self-assured when she was spewing out facts, but when she had to explain the course of action she'd taken in a social situation, she got embarrassed. Not that it was all that obvious. You just knew her well enough to understand her pauses by now.

"Um…yes. You bring coffee to my apartment on occasion so I figured it's time for me to return the favor. And I was hoping it would help you wake up but…" she studied you intently and her cute lips curved into a smile, "It seems like you slept pretty well last night. The areas of pigmentation beneath your eyes aren't nearly as profound today as they were yesterday."

"As a matter of fact, I did sleep pretty well last night," _Thanks to you and that scarf you wear that smells just as good as you do._ You snatched the bag off of the table as she pulled her own coffee out of the tray and made for your sugar jar, "So what's in here, Bones, huh?"

"A cinnamon roll from Christy's," she answered just as you opened the bag and saw for yourself. One big, sweet, gooey, cinnamon delight in there, just for you. Bones, she was the best. She really was.

"Aww thanks, Bones. You didn't have to."

"It's not a problem, Booth. I wanted to," she froze with her arm reaching for the cabinet above her head, where she knew you kept the sugar, "What happened to your wall?"

…_A sudden surge anger swept over you—anger at your exhaustion, at your inability to sleep, at __that smell__—and you couldn't help it. You whirled around and punched your wall furiously, your fist breaking through the plaster and leaving behind an ugly, gaping hole…_

You hesitated. Telling Bones that you had spent a large portion of last night haunted by the smell of the corpse she'd worked on the day before and that the only thing that had finally lulled you to sleep was _her_ scent that still lingered on _her_ scarf was not a good idea. But she was looking at you now, those blue eyes once again flashing concern. Of course. Bones knew a hole in the wall that had been created by a fist going through it when she saw one. And, as if you needed proof that she suspected you of punching your own wall, her gaze briefly dropped down to your right hand, the knuckles of which were bruised.

Well, you couldn't lie. But you damn sure weren't telling the whole truth.

"I just ahhh…got a little frustrated. I'll fix it this weekend," you said, half-mumbling and not looking her in the face.

"That wasn't there when I was in here last night," she said carefully as you grabbed your own coffee and made a hurry for the sugar yourself, still not looking at her. _Why, Bones? Why do you have to be so smart and ask so many questions? What is it with you and your need to know everything? Why can't you just leave it alone?_

But of course, this was your Bones. And your Bones wouldn't be your Bones if she left things alone.

"What got you so upset after I left that you punched your own wall?" she asked curiously.

"It was…" you frantically racked your brain for a suitable lie and found none, "It was nothing, okay Bones? It's all over with and I'm gonna plaster up the wall this weekend. Don't worry about it."

Her gaze lingered on you for a few moments and you knew she wanted to know more than that. But she seemed to understand from your tone of voice that you were serious. You really weren't going to give her any details.

"Alright," she said finally, taking the sugar jar from your hands as you pulled it down out of the cabinet.

"Hey, Bones!" you exclaimed, annoyed, "I was actually gonna use that. I wasn't just pulling things down from cabinets for your personal pleasure."

"Well yeah but I was here first."

"No you weren't. If you were here first then how did the sugar jar end up in my hands?"

"Because I noticed the hole in your wall and got distracted," she said, gingerly shaking a miniscule amount of sugar into her coffee.

"Exactly. You snooze, you lose."

"I didn't say I was _asleep_, Booth. I said I was _distracted_."

You rolled your eyes.

"It's an _expression_, Bones. I know you weren't literally sleeping."

"Then why did you say I was?" she looked and sounded genuinely confused. You stared at her for a long moment—_Since when have her little moments of ignorance actually become endearing to me?—_before you heaved a heavy sigh.

"You know what? Never mind, Bones. Could you please just hurry up with the sugar so I can get some?"

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If she noticed that her scarf was missing—and she did, you were sure—she didn't say anything to you. And you weren't exactly going to be eager to hand it over to her. Unless she specifically asked if you had seen it, in which case you already had an excuse for not returning it planned—_"Oh, is that _your_ scarf? I thought Rebecca left it behind when she came over to pick up Parker after I took him to get ice cream on Wednesday afternoon."_

But you hoped she would never ask. That scarf was magical, it was. For three weeks in a row you had spent night after night tossing and turning and having the most terrifying nightmares, but with that scarf near you—smelling just like her, all sweet and sensuous—you slept like a baby and the only dreams you had were pleasant dreams of her. And each morning when you woke up you felt just as good and rested as you had on that first Thursday morning. You didn't just want that scarf; you _needed_ it in order to keep your sanity.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Bones's scent to begin to wear off. And by that time, you were positively sure that you would never be able to sleep without her invading your olfactory system again. You needed a way to get Bones's scent back on that scarf.

You tried to do it the easy way. While at her apartment doing what else but paperwork on Monday night, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom and spent three minutes going through her cabinets, trying to find her perfume. If you only knew what kind she wore you would be able to go out and buy it yourself. Then you could spritz a few drops on the stolen scarf—or anything else, for that matter; you might as well just douse your entire bed—whenever you so desired. But you couldn't find any perfume in her bathroom. She must keep it in her bedroom, and you knew that there was no possible excuse in the world that could get you alone in her bedroom for enough time to search for her perfume.

So you tried asking her.

"Hey Bones?" you asked randomly on Tuesday morning as the two of you sped off to a crime scene in the Tahoe. You were driving, of course, and she was sitting quietly in the passenger seat, looking pensive. She tore her eyes away from the window long enough to glance at you.

"What?"

"What perfume do you wear?"

Her eyes narrowed and she fixed you with a suspicious glare that could transform lesser men into pillars of salt.

"Why?"

"I don't know…" you muttered, trying your best not to sound too invested in the conversation, "I just…You smell really good today, and I was just…wondering…"

"I smell the same every day, Booth. Why are you only wondering today?" she demanded.

_Damn Bones and her stupid damn fifty million questions. Why can't she ever just give an answer? Any other woman would interpret 'you smell really good today' as a compliment and just answer the damn question. But not Bones, no. Bones has to know everything before she can give an answer..._

"Jeez, Bones, do I have to have an ulterior motive for everything?" you tried your best to sound annoyed, which wasn't hard considering that you actually were. A little, "I'm just trying to give you a compliment and make small talk, here, but if you don't want to talk then you can just say so."

That got her. It always did. Now she was going to question her reaction to this particular social situation and rethink her response. You felt a little bad about taking advantage of her inadequate social skills, but you needed an answer from her. This was a life or death situation.

"I…I…" she shook her head and let out a long breath, "I don't wear any perfume."

_What? _

She didn't wear perfume? That had to be a lie. There was no possible way that a woman's scent could be as sweet and heady and intoxicating and inducing of sex-thoughts as Temperance Brennan's. Not naturally.

No way Temperance Brennan didn't wear perfume. No way.

"What about lotion?" you were trying your best to sound nonchalant. She shook her head.

"I don't wear lotion, either…Well I do, but only on dates and formal events," she elaborated, "I'm a forensic anthropologist, Booth. A lot of my work involves seeing and smelling. If I wore perfume or scented lotion around the lab it would interfere with my findings. So I use mildly-scented shampoo at night, but that's it…"

After that conversation, you had only one choice: you would have to make Bones "forget" something else. So you did. Many times. She came to your apartment on Wednesday afternoon, and when she took her gloves off—they were white, matching the scarf—you discreetly slipped one into your back pocket. Before she left she spent a good five minutes searching for it, until you promised to let her know if and when it turned up. You did just that, five days later, when her scent faded from the glove as well. To replace it, you stealthily stole a tiny little tank top from her hamper. The tank top you kept even after her smell wore off, of course—you couldn't very well return it to her saying "I found this in my apartment." After that you stole another tank top. Then her hat. Then another glove.

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You sat in her living room on a Friday afternoon a few weeks later, waiting for her to change so the two of you could be off to a meeting with Caroline Julian.

"Bones!" you called after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, "Will you hurry up? I don't want Caroline to be angry with _me_ because _you _spent twenty minutes getting dressed like a girl."

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" you heard her heels clicking rapidly down the hallway before she rushed into the living room, buttoning up her coat and tugging on her gloves, "And don't be dramatic, Booth. I was hardly in there for _five_ minutes, much less _twenty_."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to," you said, standing up and ushering her out the front door, "You should know by now not to take too long when it's Caroline Julian waiting for you."

"I wasn't trying to," she insisted, hastily whipping her keys out of her purse so she could lock the door, "I just…I was looking for my other tank top to wear underneath this sweater. I seem to have misplaced quite a few things recently. I can't find two of my favorite tank tops or that white hat I always wear. And I keep losing my gloves and I haven't seen my white scarf in _weeks_…"

"Yeah, well maybe you're getting delusional with old age," you placed your hand at the small of her back and began walking her quickly towards the elevators as she fumbled to put her keys back in her purse.

"Booth!" she exclaimed, offended, "I am only thirty-two years of age! I would hardly call that _old_, or even middle aged!"

"It was a joke, Bones. I'm kidding, I'm kidding," you said distractedly, pushing the button for the elevator down several times in rapid succession.

"Pushing it that many times isn't going to make it come any faster, Booth," she chided, swatting your hand, "And anyway, all of my things keep disappearing whenever _you're_ around. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that _you_ were stealing them."

_Um…shit._

You felt your face burn red and hoped like hell she didn't see it. Thank God she didn't.

You managed to play it off like everything was cool.

"I don't know if you didn't know this, Bones, but I have no interest whatsoever in any of your personal belongings. Why would I be stealing from you? _Where is this damn elevator?_"

"The elevator is coming, Booth, will you be patient? And I didn't say that you _were_ stealing my things. I merely remarked on the coincidence of my things always disappearing whenever you're around."

"Yeah, well in that case maybe it isn't old age that's making you delusional after all. Maybe it's me," seeing her pointed glare, you shot her a teasing grin, "Maybe I'm just so…_well_ _structured_ and my features are so—what do you call it?—_symmetrical _that you can't help but get a little loopy whenever I come around…"

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_Don't worry, people. There's much more good stuff to come soon. Just give me another day or so so I can do some rereading/editing, then I'll be good to go =)_


	3. Chapter 3

_I know I promised quick updates on this one, but my throat stupidly decided to contract some sort of infection this week (I don't know which one yet, I've been tested for all kinds of unhappy things like strep, mono, bronchitis, and some freakish infection where if you don't take the medicine the doc gives you your voice box may paralyze and you may become mute…something like that…don't worry, I'm taking every single pill/liquid). Point is, I've got an epic sore throat and I'm on lots of medicine so I might be a little slower with the updates than I thought. Like this one. This was supposed to go up yesterday but umm…sorry? Cough cough. _

_Also, I'm going to respond to all of your wonderful reviews. I swear. I should do that now, actually. _

_So here's a little bit of Boothy angst for you. I know, you guys want more cutesy stuff like the last chapter, and I promise there will be a happy ending, but we've got to get through some unpleasant stuff first, right? Right. _

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Friday night. It had been nearly a month since you'd started stealing Bones's clothing in order to get a good sleep at night, and her scent had yet to fail you. Until now.

And it was all because of Jared.

He had called you, earlier in the night, relaying a message from Aunt Rachel, your mother's sister. Your mother was in the hospital. Eight broken bones, three fractures, two black eyes, and a concussion that had her slipping in and out of consciousness. All courtesy of the fists and feet of your father, of course. You were saddened to hear it, but you were by no means surprised. Occasionally, it seemed like your father was getting a little less violent with age but, really, you doubted that his temper would ever truly disappear.

This time, according to Jared, he got laid off and decided to take it out on your mother by beating her to a pulp.

Jared was going home to Philly so he could be with her. And, if you were a good son—as Jared put it—you would go too. She needed you, Jared insisted. You hadn't been back to see her in over ten years; the least you could do was go visit her now that she was recovering from a near-death experience. It was likely that she would be in the hospital for quite some time. What a better thing to cheer her up than her oldest son coming for a visit?

Well, there was a reason why it had been nearly twelve years since you'd been back to see your mother and there was a reason why you only called her on her birthday or a holiday. You had escaped from Philadelphia and you vowed to never go back. No matter what. Your father, much as you wanted him to love you the way that you loved Parker, was never going to change. He was going to die an old, dirty, woman-and-child abusing alcoholic, and there was nothing you could do about it. And your mother, much as you loved her, had chosen to stay with him. You offered, many times between the moment you turned eighteen and your last visit to Philadelphia, to bring her with you. You offered to work for her, to take care of her, to put her up in an apartment—with you or on her own, whichever she preferred—where she could move on without your father and try to make some semblance of decent life. You offered to treat her like the princess she was, the way your father should have been treating her since the day he met her. But no. At first you thought it was because of Jared—you thought she was waiting for Jared to finish high school in Philly rather than move him to whatever city you were going to be in. But slowly you realized that that was not the case. She was still rejecting your offer years after Jared had turned eighteen and left the house. Evidently, she would rather stay with a man who beat on her than move out with her loving son.

And now where was she? Half dead in a hospital. A part of you wanted to go see her, to be there for her the way any good son would. But another part of you refused. Why should you feel sympathetic when she had always known that she had a way out with you? Even after you'd stopped your visits because a.) you couldn't bear to look at her bruises anymore, and b.) you could no longer promise not to beat your father to shit every time you saw him, you made sure that she always had your phone number. She still knew that all she had to do was call you. _Seeley I want to leave him_. Six simple words were all she had to say, and you would have dropped everything to drive to Philadelphia and get her.

Why should you feel sympathetic, why should you take time off of work, why should you forgo your much-looked-forward-to weekend with Parker, because she had chosen not to say them?

A part of you resented her for staying with him, and that part was stronger—much stronger—than the part of you that wanted to drop everything and follow Jared to Philly. So you didn't do it. You stayed right where you were. The basketball game you were watching ended and you went to bed not knowing who won. You lay there with Bones's hat over your nose, but for the first time since the night she'd left the white scarf behind, sleep didn't come.

What did come were images. You tried to imagine what your mother probably looked like now, after what your father had done to her. Jared had mentioned that she had two black eyes and, if the past was any indicator of the present, then it was possible that she was missing teeth and/or large clumps of hair. Jared hadn't specified which bones were broken or fractured, but if you were still a gambling man you would have put money on her nose, fingers, and ribs—your father had broken those uncountable times before. She was in the hospital, so she would be on a ventilator. There would be various needles and tubes coming out of various parts of her body. And she would be pale. Very pale. You would be able to see her every vein. She would look like death.

Along with the images came guilt. You weren't a good son; you were an _awful _son. Scratch that, you were an awful _man_. What kind of man let that happen to his mother over and over again, until he could no longer picture her face without a swollen cheek or a busted lip? What kind of man let his mother stay with someone who abused her? She could have _died_—what kind of man let that happen? A good man would honor his mother and protect her from all harm. Instead, you left her. You should have tried harder to make her leave him. You should have grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to come with you. Hell, a good man would bind his mother up and drag her out of that household if it meant keeping her safe.

And a good man, he would go back. The second a good man heard that his mother was in the hospital, his bags would be packed and he would be moving mountains to get to her. But you? You were no good man. You couldn't even muster up the will to _call_ her, or your Aunt Rachel, or whoever happened to pick up the phone in the Intensive Care Unit, just to make sure that she really wasn't going to die as Jared had reported.

By one in the morning there were so many demons running rampant in your head—memories, guilty feelings, _what-if_ scenarios, fear for your mother's life—that you were considering downing an entire bottle of whiskey just so you didn't have to feel or think about it anymore. But you couldn't let yourself do that. That was something that _he_ would do. If you weren't careful, you were going to end up just like him. _Just. Like. Him. _You had come close one time already; you hadn't overcome your gambling addiction just to become an alcoholic.

So you went for a run instead. It was pouring rain, but you barely noticed as you ran as hard and fast as you could, pushing yourself until you could focus on the rhythmic sound of your feet pounding against the pavement rather than on the demons that were slowly taking over your brain. You ran until you were sweating buckets, until your chest burned, until you could no longer breathe, until you thought your legs might give out and you would collapse in a heap right in the middle of the street. But you couldn't stop running, couldn't turn around and go home, because then the demons would come back.

And you didn't know how much longer you could deal with them.

B*****************************************B**************************************B

_Could I possibly write what happens next from Brennan's POV? Gasp! I mean, cough cough._


End file.
